For Me, It's You
by Blaze the Horizon
Summary: Ch.2 The day he walked into the café, she was there, chin resting idly on her hand, kicking her stiletto-clad foot back and forth... JxM Their meetings, from last to first to the times in between.
1. Chapter 1

It is Christmas Eve. But isn't snowing. It isn't even cold enough for anything to be frozen. Yet she gazes out, icy bones, icy fingers, icy _soul. _And she tries so very hard not to feel empty at the frivolous, meaningless chatter and the thoughtless gifts that are presented to her

They're well-meaning. They're innocent. They're--oh, who gives a fuck? She certainly never has.

It is Christmas. But she hears no angels singing . Not now, not ever. She has found nothing to rejoice in this year. Anyone like her would understand. But wait--ah, yes. This time of year serves as a bitter reminder that there is _no one _like her. She has driven away everything and everyone who held her dear.

They'll trap her in their embrace. They'll clip her wings. They'll-- God, she can't stand the sound of her own heartbeat in this singular cacophony. She imagines another there, the two organs beating in symphonic duet.

Therefore, Christmas must not exist for her That must be it. If it did, she would be inside by a cozy fire, drinking eggnog and hot cocoa with her loved ones, not sipping apple cider rum with strangers. (The effect of it is burning, more so than what's intended). She's getting tipsier by the second, and before she notices, she's wandered outside, and into the street…

Christmas does not exist. Or she wouldn't be slumped against a brick wall, crying from all the damn alcohol. Definitely not from the pain. That doesn't exist either.

She isn't sure how long she lies there, but she eventually feel strong and tender arms lifting her carefully.

_I'll take you home_

_With you?_

_Where else?_

The world is still spinning when she is placed delicately on a soft bed. She giggles as she watches him crawl to sit beside her. Liquid amber eyes meet hers and there is a fire in them more intoxicating than any drink.

Fingers brush aside her damp hair. A warm embrace envelopes her. _**And she's found it.**_

Her Christmas isn't angels, gifts, or snow. Her Christmas is a boy who traces tantalizing patterns on her bare midriff, who takes her fingers and intertwines them with his own, who kisses her mouth with such an vulnerable openness it takes her breath away.

Her Christmas is seeing those long fingers pluck at the strings of a guitar and the way his entire body trembles as he kneels to the ground. She breaks then, into countless pieces of glass, and upon seeing this he is terrified that something has gone wrong and he takes her into his arms once again. He barely hears her acquiesce.

And Christmas is over when he kisses her eyes closed and he draws her near to snuggle against him, but not before slipping the gold band onto her finger.


	2. High Above Me

The day he walked into the café, she was there, chin resting idly on her hand, kicking her stiletto-clad foot back and forth (on a bar stool). The dim fairy lights illuminating the tables make her look softer, nearly, yet no less breathtaking_. _

* * *

He is feet away from her, and fighting a losing battle with his **bodymindsoul** to go to her, tripping over his feet and stumbling over words, into her line of sight.

And then he would- He would- His mouth dries as her platinum blonde head turns minutely to look in his direction. What will he do? He can't do anything, anything but linger there as his nails dig crescents into his palms.

_Look at me. I haven't seen you in so long. Have you been alright all this time?…_

_Don't look at me. I've been a terrible friend. You're too high above me…_

And so it goes.

She glances in towards where he's standing (once he thinks they almost make eye contact, and that time his heart stops beating, then restarts in overdrive)

[Badum--badum-ba---badumbadumbadumbadum]

Even as he loiters at the entrance (and a waitress tries to seat him multiple times), she has finished her tea and biscuits, has gotten her purse, is walking past him _right in front of him. _

But she never takes notice of him.

Instead, she hands money to an employee behind the counter, saying something to the man, who nods, pressing something into his palm. He watches her as she then turns on her heel and leaves through the side door (made of glass), as the bitter March winds ruffle her hair, form dissipating into the eternal, consuming throng of the city's people. She looks back one time briefly- only once, but it is enough for him to see those violet eyes [so determined and clear]-and makes her way in the direction of the train station.

He sighs, making his way to the counter for his order. The man, surprisingly, hands him the tea and sandwich without a word, shaking his head before he can pay. He asks why. The man responds by waving a vague hand to the door. Ah.

When he sits down [at the very same place where **she **has sat, moments ago] to eat his sandwich, a thought occurs to him. He can still see her, not forty yards away, through the window, standing there waiting for the train. Almost without thinking he lets his feet carry him to the door, to reach her. Still there…still there…

And then the rumble of an engine as it stops in front of her and she climbs the up the steps [a clockwork iron dragon come to steal the fair maiden away]. Just like that, he watches helplessly as she disappears from his life again. Fate has no sympathy for him. The sakura blossoms falling obscure his vision. The wind nips at the exposed skin of his neck, cold and bitingly bitter, a scolding for his ineffectuality.

The world doesn't hold its breath for cowards.


End file.
